


Rwrb Henry's POV

by awkwardclockworksilence



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26787385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardclockworksilence/pseuds/awkwardclockworksilence
Summary: um basically rwrb in henry's pov y'all know what you came forI know it's been done before but I might try to encompass most of the timeline all the way from Rio (except for uni cause I'm lazy), so yeah I have 40k in a Google Doc (around I'm into making history)you can find me on Tumblr @awkwardclockworksilence on my mess of a blog
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

Rio

Henry never liked his house. The lavish furniture, the absurd opulence it radiates, yet gives off a smell. A lingering stench of genocide could never be washed out of the sheets.  
It's like that feeling after leaving a room where a good memory took place. As if something was left behind. Searching every nook and cranny would prove useless and you'd only find that no material possession belonged to you. Yet something is still missing.  
So one goes on with life because as Freddie Mercury says, "time waits for nobody" but it's as if a piece is missing. A piece is missing because for the time being, that place was home.  
Henry once had a home. Now he has a hollow empty house with only the illusion of safety. Now he drifts, for any sort of feeling at all, some sense of home and then Henry sees him. Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz.  
A face he'd seen on television, something about him was utterly enamoring. He'd promptly searched for him on Instagram and was too afraid to interact with his account, so he watched from afar. Seeing glimpses, of his life could not compare.  
A camera couldn't properly capture the glint in his eyes, nor the îpê amarelo peeking out of his pocket.  
Spirited. Vibrant. Alive. Adorable chin dimples, eyelashes that make his stomach churn, unruly curls in which he wants to interlace his fingers.  
Maybe that bloody charming smile could make him forget the ache that had been plaguing him for fourteen months. Henry could use some fearlessness and feeling at the moment.   
Beautiful.   
Deadly.   
Henry’s mind kept opening the same goddamn door, a hollow room only containing the echo of gran's voice: 'no one is to know about any of your deviant desires you may begin to harbor, do not reflect poorly upon the crown.'  
They repeat over and over in his head. It's said that the more times you repeat a word the more hollow and meaningless it becomes, that never seemed to be the case for Henry.   
Suddenly, Alex is right in front of him, extending his hand out to Henry’s.  
He’s too close, too damn close, Alex would set him aflame and Henry would let him. But, the vultures would find out and tear him apart. Alex's fire entrances him, he's a moth fascinated by its orangey glow. After years of a piercing, numbing chill, Henry is frostbitten and Alex burns brightly, radiating warmth and feeling. But if he were to entangle himself within the flames, they would scorch Henry.   
As his gran’s words stuff his 'deviant desires' into a vase, Henry grimaces. It doesn't quite fit, but it will have to do for now.  
"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed." As a child, he had always marked Mr. Darcy as a fool for not expressing his affection openly. That they could've avoided all the heartache, but looking back, Henry finds himself at a hypocritical crossroad. It's a decision that never really was a choice, so long as his gran remains master of the house.  
“Hi, I’m Alex Claremont-Diaz,"  
I know, Henry thinks to himself.  
Henry can’t bring himself to shake his hand. Love at first sight, perhaps. It’s like dipping one’s toes into the water at first sight, the water is frigid, but one gets used to the sensation and steps in further. Ankles. Calves. Knees. Thigh. Waist. You couldn’t tell what awaited in the depths, if there was a piranha or if you were to drown.   
Despite the possible danger, Henry can't bring himself to step out of the water. He hates himself as he whispers to Shaan; “Can you get rid of him.”  
If he got too close to this boy, he'd burn.


	2. they tried to make me go to rehab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is sad  
> "I remember her calling me that night from a club, and I lost it. I was, what, eighteen? I drove there and she was sitting on the back steps, high as a kite, and I sat down next to her and cried and told her she wasn’t allowed to kill herself because Dad was gone and I was gay and I didn’t know what the hell to do, and that was how I came out to her."  
> "the night I visited Bea in rehab and begged her to take it seriously"  
> you know your triggers and just stop reading if you can't get through  
> there are too many song references in here, I can't help myself  
> p.s./disclaimer: I'm not British, my knowledge consists of a week in London and movies

His phone is ringing.

Which should be a normal occurrence, yet it's past midnight and a total of three people have his personal number.

He picks up his phone as one would a bomb and there's a pang in his chest when he sees the caller ID.

 _Bea_.

Gran had sent her to rehab six hours prior.  
One can't _make_ Bea do anything.  
They haven't spoken for _months._  
The overconsuming feeling of guilt over his own grief washes over him.

If only he'd handled it better, Bea wouldn't have felt so alone.  
She wouldn't have gone out to the clubs searching for an answer.  
She wouldn't have started.  
She wouldn't have gotten addicted.  
He'd been awful to her and there was her escape. It eats at him, termites blistering the floors of his already rotten brain-

 _No_.

Spiraling won't do her any good, it won't help anyone.

Pick up the phone.

Pick up the phone.

Pick up the phone.

He takes a shuddering breath as he presses accept.

"Bea?" his voice is hoarse.

"Hi love," her voice sounds airy. "I think I might die today, thought you ought to know,"

Her words are slightly slurred.

"Bea, _where_ are you." he says, his breath staccato and staggered.

"I had the most splendid time at the club. There was a lovely bloke who paid for my round and lent me his guitar. Y'know, they don't give you cocaine in rehab, isn't that absurd. I missed that feeling, I could forget all my troubles and just be. Then I went on stage and that rush of fearlessness. It's freeing, giving yourself to complete strangers. Then it wore off, so I had another teensy snort,"

"Bea, please where _are_ you?" His voice is shaky.

  
"At the current moment? Well, I'm sitting on the stairway to heaven, I never knew they renamed it Queen of Diamond. Oh look there's a little bug next to me, oh no, I squished it. Perhaps, I can shrink to the size of a mouse to save it. Ooh and I'll be a mouse princess and I can teach them all to play guitar."

"Christ," he whispers, biting his lip, jogging down the stairs. 

"Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies, somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes," she sings.

"Bea, _please_ " She doesn't seem to hear him. 

But those lyrics, he knows those lyrics.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

"I'm not particularly fond of playing cards,"

"Bea-"

"Although, I do rather like clubs and diamonds, also that one card game. Whatever is it called? Oh yes, _speed_."

Henry almost drops his phone, his nails are digging into his palms.

"Bea please, hold on, I'll be there soon,"

" _Lucy in the sky with diamonds, Lucy in the sky with diamonds,"_

He doesn't think he's ever driven so fast in his life and then there's Bea sitting on the back steps of the club, in the rain. Her soaking wet brown hair in her eyes, a silver coin in her hand. She's so _pale_ , her fingers are spasming and she's swaying back and forth.

" _They tried to make me go to rehab but I said no no no_ ," Henry sits down next to her, his chin wobbly, his chest tightens, he's hyperventilating. He doesn't bother shoving the tears back down his throat.

" _Yes, I've been bad, but when I come back no, no, no,_ " she transitions into another song. _"I cheated myself, like I knew I would, I told ya I was troubled, you know that I'm no good_ ,"  
His breath catches, he knows what happened to Amy Winehouse and why Bea checked herself out of rehab.

"Oh good, Henry you're here. D'you mind acquiring me more of that lovely powder. Just enough so gran doesn't have anymore control over my life,"

  
"You're not _allowed_ to kill yourself. Dad's _gone_ , mum's too wrapped up in grief to do anything," he's trembling. "I'm gay and I don't know what the hell to do. _Please_ don't leave me, don't-don't leave me alone."

 _You're all I have left_ echoes in his mind. 

He scared to even imagine life without his sister. It hurts far too much even considering the notion that he barely registers that this is the first time he's come out. He's only ever repeated it to the enclosing walls of his bedroom in the dark. It's easier though, when no one else knows, one doesn't have to acknowledge it as truth.

His hands clench opposite arms, his nails digging into his skin.  
As Bea's arms raise, he flinches, but then they're wrapped around him, her ribs poking his side.

"I love you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she keeps repeating those two words over and over again. Then she gently takes his face in her hands, Henry forces himself to shift his gaze up to her eyes. She sounds almost sober as she says:

"I promise I'll go back, but only for _you._ I don't give a damn about what gran or Philip, or the press has to say about it."

And they stay there, holding each other in the rain. _________________________________________________She's back in rehab, yet her eyes bloodshot, she still looks paper thin, however there's now colour in her cheeks.  
He doesn't know what to expect.  
A sober Bea seems unpredictable.  
There's a pit in the bottom of his stomach, a magnetic force that wants to pull him in.  
A chasm of fear.  
Her voice is eerily quiet when she finally speaks.  
"What did she do to you?"

"Erm-"

"I swear to god, if she's-"

"Gran?"

It's as if there fumes coming out of her nostrils. His breath catches.

"I don't think she knows," his voice sounds small. Though his ears are still ringing from the words that had been engraved of the walls of his brain in blood. _No one is to know about any of your deviant desires you may begin to harbor, do not reflect poorly upon the crown._  
Bea gives him a look almost pained.

"She's always been-"

"She didn't do anything," he says, his voice small enough not even convincing himself.

"So adamant about keeping royal tradition she just doesn't give-"

"I said she didn't _do_ anything," Henry says, his voice louder. "I'm not here for me, Bea,"

"And I said I would go back here for you," Bea says, "not to please _gran_ or _Philip_ or put down the fucking speculations. I'm here for you and you only."

"But you won't even try for yourself?" His lip is quivering.

"I don't want to live in world without dad, where mum can't give a shit, where gran keeps hammering on about _marriage_ and-'"

"I thought it would fill the void," Bea says bitterly, "that it would relieve the weight of the crown, that I could feel happy again. And now I'm stuck facing reality, that the high doesn't last forever. I was so _hungry_ for a taste of freedom and thought maybe that it would be enough, but it never was.

"Somehow it feels worse than before, I want it back, that euphoria, but I know it'll never be enough. Oh, Florence. Sobriety is inevitable. It's just a whole strew of _nothingness_ , and pain. Everything is just empty, hungry for something I can never eat. Tantalus from dad's stories. _Fuck_." she's screaming now. She's always acted as if nothing can touch her and it makes it all the more painful.

"Everything they say here is just bullshit. Everytime I look at a nurse I can only see gran's face staring back at me. _Remember_ your place, act upon the crown's interests. I'm fucking _sick_ of figureheading a monarchy that won't even bother to acknowledge they've been shitty."

"Bea, _please_ ,” Henry says, his voice cracks. “you can't fix anything if you're already broken. Take this seriously and we'll change things. I can’t be the one to talk about healing, but I will try if you do too. Take it seriously, healing takes _time_. Remember the story dad told-"

"Don't," Bea's eyes are closed.

He keeps on going.

"Remember Pandora? Because of her curiosity, she opened a pithos that released all the-"

"I know the story Henry,"

"Well, then you also know that _hope_ is still inside,"

"Hope for what?"

"That things will get better, live so you can play guitar again, live so you can pet Mr. Wobbles, live so you can steal my curry in the middle of the night, live so you can learn every goddamn rock song on the guitar, live for cocktail dresses and motorcycle jackets, live so I'm not the only one who feels like this, live so you can fall in love and-"

“Who can love this, Henry?" Her voice sounds defeated. "A cocaine addict with a target on her back and heavy emotional baggage. I'll can't offer anything, no one deserves to live like us,"

" _I_ love you," he sounds almost feral. "and if that's not enough, then-" he holds off the storm, shoves it down his throat, for his sister. "I've already lost you. I'm sorry, I wasn't there for you, I just assumed you didn't need me, no one ever does. Which isn't an excuse, I should've been there for you but I- I miss him."

He's babbling, but he can't stop.

"Don't heal for the press, or gran or Philip or _me_. Heal for _you_."

He can't stay in this room any longer.

He's a coward.

It's all his fault.

It's all his fault.

Henry doesn't even reach the car before he's full out crying, heavy ugly sobs like right after dad had passed.

His vision is blurry, his head hurts, he slams down on the horn. He curls himself into a ball like when he was small and waits.

He's terrified.

Losing Bea is unthinkable.

Bea, gone forever.

Bea, gone forever.

Bea, gone forever.

He profusely shakes his head and sways back and forth.  
He doesn't know how long he sits there crying.  
As his vision clears, he plugs his phone into the speaker and starts playing soft fingerpicking on an acoustic guitar. He doesn't recognize the song and doesn't try to make out lyrics until he hears:

_Ooh ah Soon you'll get better_

_Ooh ah Soon you'll get better_

_Ooh ah You'll get better soon_

_Cause you have to_

In the last line of the chorus, the desperation in the singer's voice is almost tangible.  
And all at once it comes back. 

_I know delusion when I see it in the mirror_

The feeling of expecting things to just resolve because a future without dad was impossible, unimaginable. All that time hoping and waiting for a miracle that never came. Of believing that it would work out, because the alternative-

He illuminates his phone, Taylor Swift, The Chicks, he's about to skip past the song, he needs a distraction from all throbbing pain. 

  
_And I hate to make this all about me_

_But who am I supposed to talk to?_

_What am I supposed to do?_

He's no better than Bea, looking for a distraction from the pain.

Maybe if he lets himself feel the brunt of the pain. 

No more avoiding or denying or repressing or lashing out.

He'll hold onto hope even if it is stuck inside a pithos.


	3. caketastrophe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dear pip and martha's wedding, feat. henry pining like mad, don't make a scene don't make a scene don't make a scene - dammit he made a scene, a nod at a possible aro/ace Bea, Viscount Bartholomew Basilton (because baz, also alliteration)  
> I thoroughly enjoyed writing this

Henry looks back at himself in the mirror.

Chin tucked, hair ungelled, ruddy nose.

He's supposedly lucky.

A prince. Rich beyond belief. Able-bodied. Cisgender male. English. Blond hair. Blue eyes. 

Out of mere luck, he's won the lottery for being born this way. 

He doesn't feel lucky. 

Being impervious to a certain type of pain doesn't invalidate one's suffering. 

It simply eliminates a way in which one can hurt. 

That's the thing about privilege, one can never truly understand it, until it's gone.

Most of the people he'd see later today had probably never experienced a lack of privilege. 

Every one seems to have a 'normal' brain, they all seem to be white and able-bodied, they all seem to fit the role. Perhaps they're playing a role that isn't for for anyone, perhaps they all need the fortress protecting the fragile contents within.

The years of posture training, everytime gran tells him to remember his place, become the bricks of his fortress. Every story about himself in the tabloids, every rumor spread about him or Bea becomes the mortar. 

And for the final touch, his mother's promise: that she'd never let anything touch him, morphs into a coating of paint a form of pointillism. Only if one knew the painting well enough, or the truely keen observers could spot the mistakes and cracks. Any trace of him retreats and cowers behind the fortress.

Just smile and get through with it.

If they never know the real him, they have no leverage. The Daily Mail can't write a microaggressive piece on speculations without any evidence. 

When they know so much, _every time_ he steps a toe out of line, where he might betray the perfect royal narrative, they have too much power. They'll go to great lengths to find some incriminating evidence because you're bound to screw up at one point and then at your weakest is where they strike and they destroy you. 

All his life Henry was told to maintain the crown’s standing and he never understood why. But after all gran had put Bea through for _mere speculations_ , he's much too terrified to test anything. 

So he'd replace the genocide, the slavery and pillage with cardboard cutouts of a fairy tale prince maintained by placid smiles and half-truths. He would continue perpetuating the same lie, the same facade.

"Your suit looks lovely," Bea's voice is rather dry, "how many buttons this time?" 

"I was going to count them during the ceremony." Henry says. 

"And miss the happiest day of dear Pip and Martha's lives?" 

"I'll still be physically present, your dress looks lovely by the way." 

"Thanks love, it's got pockets," she seems oddly thrilled by pockets. 

"What's- nevermind." he says.

"I just don't understand why these events have to drag on for hours upon end," Bea says. "Lovely, you've found a partner now you have a piece of paper that says so, why turn it into a stress filled year of planning, with far too many unnecessary events?"

"It's an excuse to be relevant," Henry says. "Also to flaunt the spoils of a one sided war."

"I love you dear brother, but if you ever get married Henry, please spare me." Bea says.

"You'd miss my wedding?" He says, placing a hand on his chest in fake offense.

"No, I've a better idea, let me be the official guitarist or I can get a license off the internet and you and your _fiance_ " she says with a dramatic French accent. "Can moon about how in love you are and how despite the odds, your families and destinies pulling you apart, love won-"

He muffles her voice with his hand.

"Oh shut up," he says smiling. "Seriously though, you aren't going to get married?"

Bea shrugs.

"This may shock you, however I have never, in my lifetime, dated anyone, nor had sex. And somehow I doubt that will change."

"Not even at uni?"

"Oh darling, I played first violin at uni, orchestral folks are not much better than secondary school band kids. It's not for me." She says 'its not for me' casually, as if she were talking about a fruit she disliked. She swiftly changes topics. "I'm not sure on whether to be offended or pleased that I don't have a role in this wedding other than falling asleep in a pew," 

He plays along and drops the topic.

"No, our roles are feigning interest and attempting not to fall asleep in the pew" 

"Sorry, I didn't get the memo. Was I supposed to have gotten more than four hours of sleep?"

"I dunno," Henry says. "I didn't either."

He attempts to listen to the minister, but his voice is monotone and he's reading off a paper. It seems stretch on for hours upon end, he does manage to count all his buttons, fourty-two. He feels like a child again, falling asleep during mass and Bea's prodding elbow keeping him from nodding off.

"Is-is it the reception yet?"

"Frankly, I don't care, however I will not be in attendance. Oh look, there's our dear Pip and Martha walking together down the aisle," she sniffs.

"But who will I talk to, if you aren't there?"

"Viscount Bartholomew Basilton,"

Henry stifles a giggle.

"There isn't _actually_ -"

Bea subtly nods at someone with a large bald patch in a head of shockingly orange hair. He's wearing a navy blue suit in a tie of the dullest gray. 

"We had the most _scintillating_ conversation about the history of pavement, "

"You're joking,"

She winks.

"Oi," she says loud enough to disturb the adjacent guests. "Oi-"

He elbows her softly. 

"Stop it," he says through his teeth.

He soon discovers why Bea was so elated about pockets in her dress, she'd stored chewing gum inside.

She pops one into her mouth.

"Don't you dare throw it," he says.

"I've had my fun, but I must take my leave, perhaps you'll find a dastardly dashing peasant boy," 

She blows a bubble and as she pops it, she winks and disappears.

Subsequently, Henry wants to drown himself in champagne. Talking to Bea had helped him forget the fact that he'd see Alex during the reception. 

If Alex doesn't approach him, all the better. But, if he knows Alex well enough, Henry knows he'll be looking for someone to fight. Since Alex is so convinced of a rivalry between them, he'll pick Henry. 

Perhaps he'll dance with June. The press will love it: the children of world leaders getting together in a heteronormative fashion. The ache of long distance, oh the drama. 

He sends an attendant to implore June to dance with him. He bows so low, Henry's a little embarrassed for him, but then he gestures over his shoulder towards Henry. He approaches their table and somehow, his eyes find Alex.

For a second, he forgets about June. It’s been fourteen months since they've had a proper conversation. Though less of a conversation more like Alex baiting Henry to have a go at him.

And within those months, nothing much has really changed. Not the feeling in his lungs when he looks at him, nor Alex's beautiful eyelashes. Not the glint of animation in Alex's eye, nor has his desire quelled. 

Rolled sleeves and cuffed pants are going to be the death of him.

He imagines his fingers interlaced in his, Alex’s hand on his back, fiercely holding each other’s gaze, swaying like no one else is there. Breaking free of his gilded cage, not giving a damn about maintaining the crown’s standing. 

Nothing more than hands touching hands, (reaching out Touching Me TOUCHING YOOUU I'm sorry I had to) gazing into one another's eyes, bodies pressed-. Don't reflect poorly upon the crown, Henry squashes his delusional fantasies, Alex hates him anyway. He nods at Alex, who looks infuriated and infuriatingly handsome. 

Perhaps Alex would hate him less if he danced with June, however another twisted part of his subconsciousness believes he can replace one Claremont-Diaz sibling for another. Though the problem with that, is he's deeply gay. 

“Hello, June,” he says, extending his hand to her, she’s slightly pink. “Do you know how to waltz?” 

“I'm… sure I could pick it up,” she hesitantly says, taking his hand. And he ushers her onto the ballroom floor, his free hand resting on his back. “Waltzes are in counts of three, I lead,” he says gently. 

Eventually, they fall into a rhythm of steps and Henry can barely keep eye contact. It's always rather difficult staring into two spotlights, glaring at him, they're incredibly direct. They expect him to say the right thing, to do the right thing. Perhaps he can get away with disappointment if he never looks someone in their eyes. 

As he and June waltz, Henry's eyes somehow wander over to Alex. He catches Alex's scowl as the flash of a camera goes off. He always wonders why Alex despises him so deeply, their incessant rivalry never makes sense to Henry. 

Although, Henry tends to avoid reminiscing deeply on the ghosts of his past. It's a conscious effort sometimes, to drown out the memories that coincide with grief. Looking back will only cause more pain, so Henry can only move forward and repress. 

It's better this way, Alex hating him and staying at a rational distance. This way, Alex will never have to find out. Henry wishes so badly it were Alex in his arms, that his hand was the one placed on his elbow, his hand clasped, their fingers interlaced.

He has to remind himself that even if Alex didn't hate him, his family-gran would never accept a gay heir, it wouldn't matter. 

Suddenly, his secret feels twenty pounds heavier, perhaps keeping it will kill him. Perhaps June won't mind if he whispers in her ear I'm gay and his secret wouldn't be as weight bearing. His secret wouldn't be locked away within the walls of his clandestine hookups' NDAs and the monarchy's gilded cage. Leading June on wouldn't be kind. She deserves better than an anxious wreck of a person, obscured with the illusion of a fairytale. 

Once the song ends, Henry bows and June curtsies. 

“‘Scuse me, I'm going get a drink.” Henry would always rather observe and deflect the spotlight. He'd rather be quietly existing in the background, making a difference while not a soul noticed. 

As he observes Alex dancing with several European heiresses, Henry takes a sip of champagne at his table. The alcohol could numb his brain and the constant reminders of a heteronormative society. The nagging feeling that everything Henry wants remains slightly out of reach. 

He takes another sip of champagne. Could he drink enough to erase the memory of Alex Claremont-Diaz? Enough to wipe away his unceasing desire buried deep in his gut for a man who could never be his? 

"You're next," says a knowing voice beside him. For a second he perceives it as a threat, then he realizes where they are. He wants to pretend he never heard those words. He looks toward the source of the voice, Viscount Bartholomew Basilton.

"I've a daughter, you know." 

Henry happens to know that his daughter is fourteen years old.

"Erm... I hadn't planned on-"

"Don't worry lover boy, with those looks you'll have no trouble finding a beautiful woman to love,"

Henry denies his urge to vomit.

His eyes flicker towards Phillip and Martha and suddenly those words sound like a threat once more. It's only a matter of time before he's subjugated to a future of marrying a woman he can't love, producing heirs and unhappiness. Phillip and Martha are allowed to be happy, simply fitting the norm allows some form of contentment. 

"Sorry," he stumbles out of his chair and heads towards the champagne fountain. 

He refills his flute and downs another sip of champagne. He becomes much too lost in a flurry of thoughts and champagne to notice Alex sidling up to him. 

“When you have one of these,” Alex says, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.” 

Henry doesn't have the willpower to be civil, but he bites his lip and swallows down his pride. A sarcastic Alex, he could deal with, but not when he's an inch away from Henry.

“Alex,” he says, “I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”

It's for the best that they maintain this one sided rivalry. Henry could love him from afar and that would be enough. 

He turns to look at him. Christ, he forces himself to focus on his nose.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Alex says, with the bloody American smile and for some reason Henry can't unglue his eyes from Alex's mouth. 

Once he manages to shift his gaze to Alex's eyes and they're not much better than his mouth. They seem to beckon him to get closer, everything about him is alluring.

“Truly a momentous occasion,” Henry agrees, hoping his smile will mask everything he's feeling. He shifts his focus onto the crease between Alex's brows. 

“Do you ever get tired,” Alex says, “of pretending you’re above all this?”

It was only a matter of time until Alex was done with sarcastic civility. 

Henry stares at him, wondering if he should take the bait.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean." He says.

“I mean, you’re out here, getting the photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention which you clearly don’t since you’re dancing with my sister, of all people,” Alex says. “You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?” 

He isn't sure how Alex will react to the phrase, I’m gay as a may pole and this act is all a part of the plan to throw them off of the skittle scent. 

“I’m… a bit more complicated than that,” Henry attempts, about to explain, maybe it could end this feud. Politics never cease to be messy and Henry is continuously reminded to not fuck up international relations. 

“ _Ha_.” Henry's attention draws to the wine glass in Alex's hand.

“Oh,” Henry narrows his eyes. “you’re drunk” 

The alcohol, it's _definitely_ the alcohol's fault. Producing a coy look in Alex's eye and- 

“I’m just saying,” Alex says, resting an elbow on Henry’s shoulder. It's becoming increasingly difficult for Henry to breathe properly. 

He should've stayed sober. 

Henry wonders how much restraint he can muster before his hormones take control over his body. 

“You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.” 

Henry laughs ruefully. All that effort of attempting to appeal to the entire world. 

Worthless. 

Henry would never be enough in their eyes. He would only ever be an aloof, useless, waste of an heir. 

“I believe perhaps you should consider switching to water, Alex.” 

At least the comment had momentarily distracted him from-

“Should I?” Alex says. “Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”

Henry's incredulously baffled at the fact that he's attracted to someone quite so self absorbed. 

“Do you know what?” Henry says. “I think you are.” Alex’s mouth drops open, and it feels damn good. 

Perhaps Henry's an arsehole for being smug, but he doesn't care, teasing Alex feels so much better than unreciprocated longing. 

For probably the first time in his life Alex has shut up and is utterly speechless. 

“Only a thought,” Henry says, tone polite. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been _exhaustively_ civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” Henry takes a satisfying sip of his champagne. “Simply an observation.” 

“What? I’m not-” Alex stammers. “You’re the-” Alex is so close and it wouldn't take too much effort to lean in and thoroughly shut him up with his mouth. And though Henry would thoroughly enjoy it, he's more focused on not making a fucking scene. 

“Have a lovely evening, Alex,” Henry says tersely and turns to walk away.

However, a hand, Alex’s hand pulls his shoulder back.

Henry is tired, all the repression, the dancing, the restraint is beginning to wear on him. 

And for a second he wants to give in, to have a go at Alex, then his gran's voice repeating like a mantra no one is to know, he regains himself. 

Don’t fucking make a scene. 

Then Alex trips over his own foot and stumbles towards the cake table and the world seems to slow down. Alex bumps into the table leg.

The table of the gigantic eight-tier $75000 wedding cake. Alex grabs Henry’s arm for balance, but it’s too bloody late, they crash into the cake stand. The cake wobbles and for a fraction of a second he hopes to _God_ that it-

The cake tips over.

Don’t make a fucking scene. 

It crashes to the floor, like a bloody avalanche of buttercream frosting. Henry’s champagne glass has spilled and shattered, there’s a pang in Henry’s cheek, there might be blood. Don’t make a fucking scene. 

“Oh my fucking Christ.” Henry mutters slowly. 

He's dimly aware of the camera flash going off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidenote: I'm a band kid  
> also I didn't include neurotypical for a reason  
> if you want, you can check me out on tumblr.@awkwardclockworksilence


	4. glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the consequences of the cakegayte feat. gay panic, BEA IN A STRAWBERRY DRESS, Mr. Wobbles in a fedora, gay sitting TM, gran being a huge dick, my rant about colonization cause I don't have history (huh) this semester so there's nowhere else to put it, a much too long conversation with Pez (I'm much too lazy to cut it down), a personification of Henry's depression named after a Star Wars character, too many Taylor Swift references already  
> THIS CHAPTER IS OVER 4K WTF

CAKEGATE: ALEX CLAREMONT-DIAZ SPARKS SECOND ENGLISH-AMERICAN WAR.

All of Henry’s effort to play civil had come crumbling down with that stupid cake, that stupid cake that would ruin international relations, the cake that would warrant his death by his grandmother.

His eyes burn holes into the notification, he's no longer paying attention to the piece he's playing. Chopin is much too extra for his taste anyway, his head falls back as if he's looking for some sort of spiritual guidance.

Henry's never been a good Catholic. Every prayer, every hymn had been burned into his brain in primary school, when he couldn't understand a word. It's assimilation, brainwash, the words meant absolutely nothing to him no matter how many times he said them.

As he got older and started to unveil the truth and learn his country's history (huh), familiarity bred contempt. He'd read about what the British had done to the indigenous peoples all over the world, how their religion was seen as inferior, then all the erasure of cultural identity and then the genocide.

He can't help but think of its history (huh) whenever Catholicism comes to mind.

That this is what it represents.

This is what the monarchy represents.

Nobody deserves to be this rich over the spoils of whichever country they happened to have pillaged. Then they came up with the insulting celebration they called commonwealth day. Glorifying all the genocide, it's a statement saying, we're not going to acknowledge what we did because the British empire is the greatest in the world and y'know what? We're actually proud of all the colonialism that fucked over your country, its effects continuing to screw you over. No you will never truly have independence and we're going to continue to perpetuate the same bullshit propoganda and lies to future generations.

He forces his brain to stop, because otherwise, the spiral will be endless and end up giving no one perspective on nothing. 

As it turns out having a history (huh) debate with yourself in your head doesn't count as productivity. Even if someone cared enough to indulge him, they'd bore quickly. They wouldn't bother getting past his fortress to explore the inside. Even if they make it inside they'd be frightened off by Grievous.

Grievous is a blight, a demon that lives in the pipes, it manifests differently every time. Perhaps as a leak in the bathroom that spreads throughout the house leaving water damage. Sometimes its a tsunami, drowning and overwhelming. It causes droughts and blackouts when he least anticipates it. Grievous prevents him from turning off the lights most nights. Sometimes he can put a name to Grievous, but other times it sneaks up on him when he isn't looking.

It's the greatest foe he's ever faced and he faces it, alone. He can't bear anyone else getting hurt by Grievous, but no one gets past his fortress. There are little things that fend off Grievous, like the skylight. 

It's his favourite feature of the entire palace and it's right above the piano. When night falls, it gives off a view of Orion. It was a small way of remembering dad that doesn't ache as much. To imagine he's up there in the stars, just as Orion was, transformed into a constellation. 

His phone buzzes, a text from Pez. ASGFJDKGKGJDSK 

remember when you said this wedding would be uneventful 

Have you met my brother? 

Auntie Pezza

is he the one who eats plain toast for breakfast? yes, I believe so 

The wedding itself was rather exhausting, four hours of the same old minister and ordeal of every royal wedding. 

Auntie Pezza 

I sense a but 

ALEX STARTED TALKING TO ME AJDFJFJDJLA At first it was just him trying to aggravate me like usual and ARGH I sometimes I don't know whether I want to stab him (like gently) or kiss him. WHY AM I ATTRACTED TO HIM TALKING BACK TO ME? IT'S NOT FAIR.

Auntie Pezza

there's the butt

So I had this whole plan, if I danced with someone that'd gain a lot of traction, they'll never know. So I started dancing with June and so they wouldn't figure it out.

Auntie Pezza

that you're having an affair with her brother?

That would be a miracle Pez.

Auntie Pezza

also YOU BACKSTABBER

What did I do now?

Auntie Pezza

you said you'd introduce me to June and instead and now you're wooing her

I'm gay, get over yourself

Auntie Pezza 

you better not introduce me to her at your wedding/j anywho back to you

Christ, Pez. 

Well, after I danced with June I ran into someone.

Auntie Pezza

alex

the love of your life

but worst enemy

with a tragic distance

Pez,

Auntie Pezza

yes love?

shut up.

Auntie Pezza

sorry love, you can't leave me hanging

Viscount Bartholomew Basilton approached me. As it turns out, he wants to set me up with his daughter.

Auntie Pezza

isn't she the spunky ginger who blows raspberries at any person in sight?

Yes.

but, isn't she twelve years old??

Yes.

Auntie Pezza

that vile vile man. i shall misfortune him at any opportunity that arises

So, I ran away from him.

Auntie Pezza

and into alex's embrace 😍😍

No, you hopeless romantic, I ran to the champagne fountain

Auntie Pezza

and got obscenely drunk so you confessed your love for alex. he was taken aback while clutching your hand and stumbled into a cake

STOP.

Auntie Pezza

and the two lovers' families couldn't bear it, a fox mountchristen windsor wales with a claremont-diaz? quel scandale! imagine their kids' last names

I hate you.

Auntie Pezza

careful now henry, you wouldn't want those to be your last words to me

Why? Where are you?

Auntie Pezza

malaysia

did you know the cell service on mount kinabalu is awful?

What the bloody hell are you doing up there?

Auntie Pezza

base jumping

anyway, what happened with alex?

He approached me at the champagne fountain, he was utterly drunk, I think he may have been flirting? His eyes were all narrow and he was resting his elbow on my shoulder. 

It was just banter and bickering back and forth until I snapped.

Auntie Pezza

go off babe

It was stupid, he said something along the lines of "I'm not obsessed with you" and I may have told him that by seeking me out time and time again, that he is.

He was rather speechless. 

I wanted to kiss the stupid look off his face, but I turned away. He grabbed my elbow and stumbled into the cake table. 

Auntie Pezza

your version is much more entertaining than the story i concocted

anyway, I'm bound to be BASE jumping any second now

Pez do you know how many people have died BASE jumping?

Auntie Pezza

sorry love, have to store my phone safely i'll see you on the other side

Pez

Pez what-

Henry stops bothering and places his fingers on the ivory keyboard instead of the digital. He's instantly reminded of why he hates this piece. It was embellished with unnecessary ornaments and arpeggios, which were more of a nuisance than anything. Chopin was brilliant, but his only concern was showing off for an audience. 

A knock on the music parlour door, Shaan Srivastava, his royal equerry.

"Your highness," Shaan nods at him. 

"Hello Shaan," Henry smiles.

"A package from the White House has arrived, complete with Mr. Claremont-Diaz's fact sheet and list for kitchen stock." Shaan says. "He'll be arriving Sunday at fifteen thirty, after signing a non disclosure agreement, while he's here the two of you will undergo a series of press coverage, two joint appearances and social media posts. The documents explain in more detail, however I wouldn't want to bombard you, so I will leave to read them on your own time."

Henry sucks in a deep breath.

"Alright,"he says, "thank you Shaan, I appreciate it."

"I shan't keep you any longer, Her Royal Highness is waiting,"

"Thank you," he nods.

Bea peeks her head through the crack. “Alright Henry?” she asked. 

“I’m brilliant.” he says, his voice shaky. "It turns out causing an international incident involves a lot of paperwork."

“Hey, it’s okay. They'll clear it up, it's only a couple of appearances," Bea says. 

“What's she going to say?" 

"Henry," she says in a steadying voice. 

"It wasn't your fault-" 

"But I got him all riled up. I knew how he would react and-" 

"Placing the blame won't accomplish anything love," Bea says. "also I've changed my mind, I'm definitely coming to your wedding." 

"What?" 

"Yours and Alex's," 

Henry's ears grows increasingly warm. "We're not-" he practically exclaims. "He- absolutely- I- argh," 

Unable to form a coherent sentence, he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. "I hate you," he says. 

Bea blows him a kiss. 

"Looking forward to the invite." 

Bea sits down and picks up her acoustic. 

"I'm assuming it would be an awful time for bad news," she says, picking at a song that sounds vaguely familiar. 

"Bad news accompanied with a side of cognac?" 

Bea's fingers abruptly stop, the corner of her mouth pulls in. It's such a slight and subtle gesture, he almost misses it. 

"Fuck. I'm sorry, I promise I'll-" 

"Henry, shut up," Bea says. 

He promptly does so, chewing at his lip. "You have to understand that I physically can't go through life without any mention of alcohol. Which is why I'm never going back to Scotland." Bea continues. "However, I can't let it affect me every time someone asks me to go for a pint. I'm already going to be a crazy cat lady, I can't decline every social outing because it involves alcohol."

"But if I could make it _easi_ -" 

"Henry, nothing about this process is easy,"

"What can I do?" 

"Maybe avoid talking about solving your problems with alcohol. It helps saying it in a context at which it means nothing," she sighs out. "It doesn't work for everyone, but if I can disassociate the experience from the word, it can't affect me." 

"Alright."

She strums an A minor chord then goes into a pattern that Henry hopelessly can't follow, the chord progression continues with an F major then a G major. 

_Party girl don't get hurt_

_can't feel anything_

_when will I learn_

_push it down_

_push it down_

_push it down_

She stops on the last A minor strum, her breathing audible. 

_I'm the one for a good time call_

_phone's blowin' up_

_they're ringin' my doorbell_

_I feel the love_

_feel the love_

She stops again, then she grabs her capo and it molds into another song.

He recognizes it as the intro to Killer Queen and jumps in on the piano. 

Bea starts singing and promptly stops. "It's everywhere innit," her voice is bitter and low. 

And then it hits him.

Mr. Wobbles waddles into the parlour with a fedora atop his head, his eyes a piercing shade of blue that seem to glare at Henry. 

Bea removes her acoustic from her lap and rests it on the stand. 

Her demeanor completely changes as Mr. Wobbles curls into her lap. As Bea rubs her Siamese cat's belly, he makes satisfied purrs. 

"Hello, my precious angel of fluff. Have you come to comfort mummy? I love you so much, my baby." Bea says. "Oh and you too Henry." 

"I swear, you love your cat more than me." 

Mr. Wobbles purrs in confirmation. 

"Hush now, Mr. Wobbles. We don't want to hurt his feelings." 

"This is a new low." Henry says. "I'm being insulted by a cat." 

"Don't worry Henry, Mr. Wobbles is a good boy." 

Henry raises a brow. 

"Henry, how dare you." Bea says with no vindication, then she stage whispers. "Don't worry Mr. Wobbles, Henry didn't mean anything by it." 

"Dear god, put me out of my misery, what's the bad news?" He says rather quickly. 

"Hmm?" Bea asks. "Oh, erm. Gran has formally requested an audience with you." 

Henry bites his lip, his chin unconsciously slightly tucking in. "When?" 

"Ten before dinner tonight, she's requested a family dinner." 

"Alright," he says, devoid of emotion. 

His vision is out of focus, he feels a little dizzy. 

"I suppose we must face the consequences of our actions. I'm going to get ready." He stumbles out of the door. 

"Henry," Bea calls out after him, but he doesn't stop. Not until he reaches his room, he turns on the lights. 

They're much too bright, he turns them back off. 

He sits on the floor with his back against the wall, he hugs his knees to his chest. 

His breathing is much too loud. 

Much too loud. 

His heartbeat much too fast. 

Too vulnerable. 

Too exposed. 

He sways back and forth and his hands grip tightly onto his clothes. The firm grip is almost comforting, he doesn't want to let go. 

But he does anyway. 

Gran doesn't tolerate weakness. 

_Push it down._

_Push it down._

_Push it down._

He stands back up and turns on the lights, his motions feel almost robotic. 

He rebuilds the fortress, assuring there are no cracks this time, his mouth set in a firm line, his shoulders set, his facade unbreakable. 

He changes into a button down and out of his sweatpants. He scrubs his face and gels back his hair. 

Burberry. 

Blonde hair. 

Gray tie. 

The perfect heir. _____________________________________ 

Gran sits at the head of the table stirring a cup of tea, her gaze is directed down, he can't see her eyes. When she does look up, they're stoic and stone cold. 

A jolt of fear courses through him, his chin tucks and his eyes avoid contact. 

"Henry, dear, would you care to sit down." It was more of an order than anything. 

He sits one chair from the end, the foot not facing gran tucked underneath him. 

"I'm sure you're aware of why you're here? We didn't send you to Oxford for English literature for nothing." 

"Yes gran." His response automatic, though she definitely doesn't need to know the details of his time at uni. 

"The American boy is to make amends and maintain public appearance. I do not care what your personal relationship with this boy entails so long as you do not jeopardize the crown's standing." She says. "You know your role in this family. Giving in to your foolish desires is cowardice, dear. Simply project an ideal appearance of British excellence and you will do fine dear, it is your duty to our legacy." 

"Yes, gran" 

"And remember Henry, what I told you, it's for your own good." She smiles sickly sweet, it looks unnatural. 

His lip is quivering and he hopes to God that she doesn't notice. He digs his teeth into his bottom lip but it doesn't stop. 

_Useless_. 

The word floats heavy around the room, his signet ring even heavier. 

He's a burden.

He can't even properly uphold a legacy.

Why is his stupid brain like this? 

Why must he be gay? 

Why must he be an heir? 

Why must he be in the public eye? 

Why must he be broken? 

Why must he bear this ring? 

He goes to take it off under the table, but he can't. He doesn't even have the willpower. 

Bea arrives wearing a muted pink cocktail dress with a plunging neckline. Strawberries adorn the sheer fabric over the material. Her hair is in a braid crown, she's wearing satin wedges, black lipstick and dangling hoop earrings. 

"Beatrice," gran's head tilts upward, her lips pursed in disappointment. 

_This_ is her way of rebelling he realizes. The tabloids will destroy her if she acts out, but in small ways even if it's simply in their quarters, it's freedom. 

He's much too frightened to make a statement, to test anything. 

Mum walks in, her eyes almost unnoticeably glazed over under her thick glasses. She's wearing a knitted black jacket, a frilly headpiece with a pink carnation on top and a pencil skirt. 

There's an ache in Henry's chest when he sees her. She's a fire that has burnt out, the only remaining sparks found in Bea's eyes. Even those grow dim by the day. 

There's a strained heavy silence as they eat, only the clatter of cutlery against fine china and the awful sound of chewing. Henry wants to clap his hands over his ears and sit in the corner, but he doesn't. All the years of posture coaching gets him to sit up straight, but he wants to put his feet on the chair, he wants to slouch, sit upside down, instead he sits there eating his zucchini and salmon. 

After dinner, he doesn't linger, he quickly excuses himself and he's back in his and Bea's apartments in the north west wing of the palace. 

Any part of the palace is enclosing really, but his quarters puts distance between him and gran.

He sits on the counter with a Cornetto in hand and an interview of Alex with Trevor Noah is playing on his phone that rests between his knees. 

Henry ends up biting his lip more than the actual Cornetto.

Alex's smirk after he's just said something witty. 

The way his eyelashes flutter upon his cheek as he winks. 

His dimples as he flashes an all American smile when he thinks no one is looking, but Henry's eyes never leave his face. 

He's authentic and even through the screen Henry can sense his natural confidence 

"Good, you've already done some research,"

Henry jumps as he realizes Bea is sitting next to him, he turns off his phone and hides it behind his back. 

“Surprisingly, the walls of the music parlour aren't sound proof, if I recall correctly you've got a fact sheet.” Bea says presenting him a folder. 

It's full of bulleted lists and tables of data titled FSOTUS ALEX CLAREMONT-DIAZ FACT SHEET. 

"Where'd you get that?"

"You left it on the piano, I figured you'd need it,"

"Bet you already know all of them." 

"I do not." 

"Fine," she says snatching it back. "What sport did he play in secondary?" 

"He was captain of his high school lacrosse team." 

"What the bloody hell is that?" 

"It's like football, but they have these net sticks." 

Bea makes a face. 

"Y'know what I can't even pretend to care. Favourite book?" 

"Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," Henry sighs. 

"Parents?" 

"Ellen Claremont, president of the United States, also known as Lometa Longshot, former lawyer and Oscar Diaz, California senator, son of Mexican immigrants, they divorced in 2009" 

"I thought you said you didn't know all of them." 

"I don't," 

"Best friend?" 

"Nora Holleran, daughter of the vice president, they're rumoured to be rekindling their romance." 

He says as objectively as possible.

"Jealous much?" 

"Haha Bea," 

Henry nibbles at the chocolate wafer cone and decidedly does not confirm nor deny. 

"Favourite food?" 

"Erm…I haven't a clue." 

"Here it says…" she pauses. "Oh god, I'm going to butcher this pronunciation."

"Give it a go,"

"Pork...tamales." Bea says. "Ooh, I wonder if he speaks Spanish."

"Okay, bedtime,"

"Henry," Bea says. "It's barely twenty-one o'clock, you're not exactly quiet pacing at two in the morning,"

"I'm tired for once," he says. "And I will have you know that it's David, not me."

"My feet are rather cold around that time, perhaps they're having an affair,"

_________________________________________________

Henry half dreads the end of polo practice, for several reasons. 

He's deeply gay, the monarchy doesn't look kindly upon being gay and he knows the exact time Alex arrives in London. 

He turns around a bend and of course Alex is there, with his stupid chin dimples, his frustratingly beautiful eyes and his unruly hair. Henry takes a steady breath and unhooks his helmet to take it off. 

Once Henry is in earshot Alex says: "I'm going to throw up on you," 

"Hello, Alex," Henry says. Alex never seems to like the exhausting civility and Henry's supposed to be mad at him. He never was good at keeping grudges. Perhaps he'll play along with the whole rivalry thing. "you look… sober."

"Only for you. Your Royal Highness." Alex mock bows and it's cute. 

"You're too kind," Henry says and dismounts his horse. He removes a glove and extends his hand out to Alex. 

"This is idiotic," Alex says grasping Henry's hand.

Henry likes the feel of Alex's warm, but not sweaty, callused hand on his. He subsequently starts picturing Alex's hand sliding up his arm, ghosting his cheek, dropping to his stomach. 

There are cameras around. 

There are cameras around. 

He hasn't decided whether he wants to punch Alex or kiss him, however he most definitely doesn't have the impulsivity to do either. They force a smile for the camera, 

"Let's get it over with." 

"I'd rather be waterboarded," Henry says, smiling. His and Alex's eyes are locked, unyielding. "Your country could probably arrange that." 

Alex throws his head back and laughs falsely. 

"Go fuck yourself." Alex says, through his stupidly charming smile. Why doesn't he fuck Henry himself, coward. 

"Hardly enough time," Henry says. Then Shaan returns and Henry releases Alex's hand. 

Oddly enough, that wasn't the longest handshake he'd ever had. 

"Your Highness," Shaan nods at him. Alex raised his eyebrows, he looks as if he wants to stick out his tongue at him. "the photographer should have what he needs, so if you're ready, the car is waiting." Henry turns to Alex and smiles. 

"Shall we?" 

Henry can't sleep. 

On a regular basis, falling asleep is rather difficult. Falling asleep means surrendering himself to his subconscious mind. His subconscious is unpredictable, it's wandering through a dark basement, hoping not to bump into anything, unknowing of what one will find. Sleeping means risking stubbing his toe and falling face first, it'll bring back memories that hurt too much to bring back up. 

He's restless, as always, so he puts in his earbuds and clicks his playlist entitled homely. Of course Taylor Swift starts to play, _You Belong With Me._ He ventures to his own kitchen to search for a Cornetto. But he realizes that he'd eaten up the last of it last night. Alex's list indicated _Helados_ , ice cream in Spanish, so they had to have restocked the guest kitchen, maybe he could sneak in without bothering anyone. He flicks on the hallway light and the song changes. 

_Our secret moments_

_In a crowded room_

_They got no idea about me and you_

_There is an indentation_

_In the shape of you_

_Made your mark on me_

_A golden tattoo_

He yawns and when his eyes blink open, he freezes. 

There's Alex perched on the countertop, phone in hand, wearing glasses, his index fingernail in his mouth. 

_Oh my fucking god_ he thinks to himself.

Suddenly, he's all too aware of exactly what he's wearing and his terrible posture. Someone on the other end starts to say something but the call disconnects.

Henry pulls out his earbuds and straightens his spine. Alex is seeing him in his pajamas. Is that allowed? They're not even on good terms, what if Alex thinks he's come here to slit his throat in the middle of the night. 

_Oh god_ , Henry can't come up with an explanation as to why he likes Alex in his glasses.

 _Say something Henry. Use your fucking words_. 

"Hello," he says, hoarse from a lack of use. "Sorry. Er. I was just. Cornettos." he awkwardly gestures to the freezer. 

"What?" Alex sounds confused. The walk to the freezer was excruciatingly painful, Henry grabs the box of Cornettos. 

"I was out. Knew they'd stocked you up." Henry says rather quickly. 

"Do you raid the kitchens of all your guests?" Alex asks. 

"Only when I can't sleep," Henry says. "Which is always. Didn't think you'd be awake." 

He looks at Alex, a silent ask for permission to take one. A rush of anxiety pictures Alex yelling at him to get out, but Alex just considers for a second and nods. 

"Have you practiced what you'll say tomorrow?" 

"Yes," Alex says, sounding mildly offended. "You're not the only professional here." 

Of course he would take it as a blow. None of his words come out as he intended and Alex will always take it as an insult. 

"I didn't mean-" Henry falters. "I only meant do you think we should, er, rehearse?" Henry is barely breathing. 

"Do you need to?" 

"I thought it might help." Henry says dumbly. 

Alex hops off the counter and illuminates his phone. 

"Watch this." Alex doesn't even have to tell him, Henry can't take his eyes off him, or get past the fact that he's wearing glasses. He takes a picture of the box of Cornettos. "Nothing cures jet lag," Alex's voice is monotone as he types on his phone. "Like midnight ice cream with @PrinceHenry. Geotag Kensington Palace, and posted." 

Henry stares as Alex shows him his phone on Instagram. 

"There are a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But, this isn't one of them." 

Henry furrows his eyebrows. Of course Alex doesn't overthink everything, he doesn't have pace for hours wondering if he worded a speech properly. He doesn't have to stress over what he posts on Instagram without fearing he exposed too much of himself. 

"I suppose," he says, doubtful and anxious. 

"Are you done?" Alex asks. "I was on a call." 

Another stinging reminder that this arrangement doesn't mean they have to get along.

Henry just thought- 

Henry blinks, but it's more of a wince then he folds his arms over his chest as if his arms could physically protect his heart. 

"Of course. I won't keep you." Alex probably reckons he's a mere annoyance, he should've thought it through, he'd never even considered the possibility that Alex might be awake. They're not even friends. 

Alex hates him. He shouldn't have been so stupid. 

But before he can stop himself he pauses at the door says: "I didn't know you wore glasses," 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for future chapters, I feel it's necessary for y'all to know that I've been speaking French for over ten years (Paris will have a fun surprise), also you can find me on Tumblr @awkwardclocksilence


	5. just gay panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gay panic! (without the disco) feat. gay panic in cars, gay panic at interviews, gay panic in hospitals, gay panic in cupboards with one's supposed nemesis

* * *

It manifests like a tumor, it starts as a poison in the mind and spreads like an ache in the back of the mouth, then as claw on his heart, it sinks to his stomach until it overtakes the entire body. _Grievous._

There is no controlling when or where.

He's in a car on the way to a public appearance.  
His breaths feel like slow heavy footsteps, the unevenness and potholes in the road feel like heartbeats.  
Henry has dealt with it long enough, to school his features so no one but Shaan will notice.

Henry tugs his collar and Shaan hands him the meds. He swallows the capsule.  
He anticipates some snide remark from Alex, but the blow never arrives.  
Henry is dreading the moment he has to exit the vehicle.

Mustering the energy to stand and smile and wave seems nearly impossible.

Merely picturing the crowd is overwhelming and drains the energy out of his body.

He has supposed fans, but Henry has done nothing. He's but a figurehead, propoganda helping one forget about the years of genocide and torture.

Thewhole monarchy concept had birthed toxic masculinity. It was all about how many conquests one could make and territories had translated to women.  
Objectified and romanticised.  
Though it's all about the power. The problem with power, is that it corrupts and they figure they can get away with anything. Enough of that power and they develop a superiority complex top it off with fear of the unknown and there you have the perfect recipe for misogyny.  
He spends a majority of the ride to the studio trying not to look at Alex.

If he focuses on Alex, he'll forget what to say and he hadn't done nearly enough preparation.  
Once they pull up in front of the studio Henry can't help it, he gives in and takes a peek at Alex.

  
Curly hair, easy confidence in simply the way he carries himself, a sharp jawline, long lashes.  
Oddly enough, the sight of him is soothing.  
He can't help but wonder if Alex is thinking about their interaction last night. Whether Henry gave too much of himself away by traipsing in there at an ungodly hour. Alex saw him less than polished and treated him the same. Alex doesn't treat him differently because he's a prince and _Christ,_ Henry loves him for that. He just hopes his face doesn't betray the sentiment.

  
"Prince goes first, then you," Shaan says to Alex as he touches his earpiece.

  
Alex puts on a charming lopsided grin, the same smile from every interview, the one that made him feel like he properly knew him.  
And Henry wants to kiss him.  
 _Fuck_.  
Henry bites his lip.

  
"Go ahead, You Royal Highness," Alex says, winking. Alex's long lashes brush his cheek, then he puts on his sunglasses. "your subjects await."  
Good check in reminding Henry that he isn't straight.

  
Henry gulps and uncurls his body out of the car. He straightens his posture and waves. The crowd blurs, he can only see splotches of colour blurring together. He wants to get back in the car, he wants to drive far away and live somewhere no one would recognize him. But he keeps walking, no matter what's in his head or what he wants, Henry keeps on walking no matter his blisters and aching feet.  
Alex throws an arm around Henry's shoulders. Henry is becoming increasingly tense.

  
"Act like you like me!" Alex says cheerfully.

If Henry opens his mouth he'll probably end up saying something Alex takes offense to or something along the lines of _I love you._ But years of repressing and filtering his brain to mouth has trained him for this moment.

So, instead he leans his head towards Alex, forces a laugh and carefully places his arm around Alex, it takes a conscious effort to untense his shoulders.  
At the moment, Alex and his meds are the only things preventing him from collapsing.

  
"There we go." Alex says.

  
They get styled for the thousandth time and Henry stares at the light fixture trying to dim it with his mind.

It's too fucking bright.

It's too fucking loud and he can't focus on anything else but his upcoming public speaking. His vision is out of focus, he feels a little dizzy, he's hyperaware of his breathing.  
Nevertheless, he leads Alex out onto The Morning smiles and waves at the crowd.

  
It's as if his eyes are on portrait mode but nothing is in focus except for the person behind him.  
Alex shakes the host's hand, charmed by him, she giggles and kisses Alex on the cheek and for an odd second Henry wants to be her.  
He takes a seat on the prop couch, instantly straightening his posture, Henry wants to slouch and go back to sleep.  
Alex smiles at him and his gaze lingers. The stage lights are rather good at highlighting Alex's hard jawline, his high cheekbones, his-

Henry digs his nails into the couch hopefully unnoticeably.

"What do you think of jolly old England, then, Alex?" Dottie says elbowing Alex and he smiles.

  
"You Dottie, it's gorgeous," Alex says. "I've been here a few times since my mom got elected, and it's always incredible to see the history here, and the beer selection." Henry hates the laugh track. "And of course, it's always great to see this guy."  
Henry swears he dies every time he comes into contact with Alexander Gabriel Claremont-Diaz.  
Alex holds out a fist, clearly with the intent of a fist bump. Henry doesn't want to touch Alex on live TV in fear of his face giving himself away, but he has to keep up the ruse. Henry awkwardly obliges.

Then the interview is over and they're in the cancer ward.

  
Henry introduces Alex and he indulges the kids with their questions about America. For some damn reason, Henry's chest starts to ache. Seeing Alex with a kid in his lap talking to them like they're the only one in the room makes Henry's heart swell. And right there, in a cancer ward he starts to daydream about having a family with Alex.  
Holding their hand on the first day of school, making them watch all their favourite films. Henry trying to help Alex make dinner and miserably failing, Henry teaching piano.

There's an ache in his chest accepting that it'll never be a reality. (just you wait, just you wait)  
Henry kneels in front of a little girl named Claudette and holds her hand. She's wearing a scarf around her head with the rebellion insignia from Star Wars.

  
"Star Wars fan, are you?" His voice is gentle as he points to her headscarf.

  
"Oh, it's my absolute favorite," Claudette gushes. "I'd like to be just like Princess Leia when I'm older because she's so tough and smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo."

She blushes and maintains eye contact, Henry wouldn't mind kissing Han Solo either. Henry wishes everyone could be like her, passionate, innocent and just filled with such joy.

  
"You know what," Henry says, leaning in, "I think you've got the right idea."

  
Claudette giggles. "Who's your favorite?"

  
"Hmm," Henry muses, pretending to think extremely hard, but he's had an answer to this question for a long time."I always liked Luke. He's brave and good and he's the strongest Jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn't matter where you come from or who your family is-you can always be great if you're true to yourself"

"All right, Miss Claudette," says a nurse brightly. Henry jumps, he was so lost in conversation, he didn't notice Miss Beth, the nurse, come round the curtain. It's not until then he notices Alex was watching him.

Alex almost tips his chair over, then avoids eye contact as he stands and clears his throat.

"You two can go, it's time for her meds."

  
"Miss Beth, Henry said we were mates now!" Claudette wails. "He can stay!"

Henry utterly wishes he could stay just talking to Claudette about Star Wars forever. Absolve himself of all responsibilities and just talk to little kids about Star Wars all day.

  
"Excuse you!" Beth the nurse tuts, "that's no way to address the prince. Terribly sorry, Your Highness."

  
"No need to apologize," Henry tells her. "Rebel commanders outrank royalty." Henry winks and salutes at Claudette and she melts.

Henry wants to flap his arms around, her smile is so precious. It's been engrained in his brain that it'll disturb others, it's a strange habit. He interlaces his fingers together behind his back.

  
"I'm impressed," Alex says once they're out in the hallway. He can't tell if Alex is being sarcastic, so to play it safe, he raises an eyebrow. "Not impressed, just surprised."

  
"At what?"

  
"That you actually have, you know, feelings."

  
Is that what Alex truly thought of him, for the past several years? An emotionless, boring heterosexual heir to a throne. Perhaps Henry should pursue an acting career, after all it's in his genes.

Henry starts to smile when he hears someone shouting from the opposite end of the hall. There's a loud bang, that frighteningly sounds like gunfire, then Alex's Secret Service agent grabs their arms and shoves them into the closest door.

The door slams shut and the agent grunts : "Stay down,"  
In the darkness, he hears Alex trip over something and stumbles over one of Henry's legs. Once again, they crash to the floor, although this time Henry falls face first into a bedpan and Alex on top of him. The pain thuds and Henry hopes it doesn't leave a bruise.

  
He can't fucking believe his odds.

He's stuck in a cupboard in a children's hospital with Alex on top of him.

  
He's bloody grateful that it's dark, otherwise he'd lose his mind. The pressure of Alex's body on his, isn't particularly comfortable or ideal. Henry begins to hyperventilate and then he starts fantasizing. Alex kissing him, Alex stroking a hand through his hair, Alex unbuttoning his shirt, Alex-

  
"Oh God," Henry says, muffled and echoed.

  
"You know," he says into Henry's hair. "We have got to stop ending up like this."

Henry's sanity, please.

  
"Do you mind?"

  
"This is your fault!"

  
"How is this possibly my fault?" Henry hisses.

  
"Nobody ever tried to shoot me when I'm doing presidential appearances, but the minute I go out with a fucking royal-"

  
"Will you shut up before you get us both killed?"

  
"Nobody's going to kill us. Cash is blocking the door. Besides, it's probably nothing."

  
"Then at least get off me." 

  
"Stop telling me what to do! You're not the prince of me!"

  
Alex's maturity levels are astounding.

  
"Bloody hell," Henry mutters and he pushes off the ground to knock Alex off of him. He tries to shift his body so he isn't touching Alex, but there isn't any room.

  
"Can you move over, Your Highness?" Alex whispers, shoving his shoulder against Henry's. "I'd rather not be the little spoon."

  
He makes a conscious effort to remind himself to breathe.

  
"Believe me, I'm trying," Henry replies. "There's no room." Alex's elbow was poking at his side and it was becoming increasingly less comfortable.  
There are muffled voices and hurried footsteps outside.

  
"Well," Alex says. "Guess we better make ourselves comfortable."

  
Alex is going to kill him.

"Fantastic."  
He shifts to cross his arms over his chest, it's safer with his arms guarding his heart, that is about to explode out of his chest.

  
"For the record," he says, "nobody's ever made an attempt on my life either."

  
"Well, congratulations," Alex says "you've officially made it."

  
"Yes, this is exactly how I always dreamed it would be." of course he was in a closet. "Locked in a cupboard with your elbow inside my ribcage," he snipes.

  
Then Alex, being Alex, jabs his elbow into him, Henry yelps and is fucking done with civility. He yanks Alex by the shirt and pins him down, his entire body on top of Alex. 

Henry is questioning his life choices.

  
"So you do have some fight on you," Alex says and Henry wants to shut him up with his mouth. Then he bucks his hips and Henry's grip on Alex's collar tightened.

Henry is too bloody gay for this shite. 

For some reason God Save the Queen is in his head. 

  
Somehow he manages to keep Alex pinned down with his hand in Alex's collar, his height advantage and his sanity intact.

  
"Are you quite finished?" Henry says, sounding rather strangled. "Can you perhaps stop putting your sodding life in danger now?"

  
"Aw, you do care," Alex says. "I'm learning all your hidden depths today sweetheart."

  
Henry sighs, he hates that he likes the way Alex says sweetheart. He rolls to the side, off of Alex.

  
"I cannot believe even mortal peril will not prevent you from being the way you are."

  
He cannot believe he's actually attracted to Alex. Perhaps it's only Alex, but he has a thing for sarcastic American boys who call him names.  
They lie there for a while, unspeaking listening to the shuffling outside the cupboard.

  
"So, uh," Alex says. "Star Wars?"

  
"Yes, Alex," Henry says archly, "believe it or not, the children of the crown don't only spend their childhood going to tea parties."

  
"I assumed it was mostly posture coaching and junior polo league."

He winces. 

  
"That… may have been part of it."

  
"So you're into pop culture, but you act like you're not," Alex says. "Either you're not allowed to talk about it because it's unseemly for the crown, or you choose not to talk about it because you want people to think you're cultured. Which one?"

  
Henry is exhausted. He doesn't want to talk about himself. He wants to lie down (preferably not in a bedpan) eat Jaffa cakes and watch Bake off with David on his lap.

  
"Are you psychoanalyzing me?" Henry asks. "I don't think royal guests are allowed to do that."

  
"I'm trying to understand why you're so committed to acting like someone you're not, considering you just told that little girl in there that greatness means being true to yourself."

  
Deny, deny, deny.

  
"I don't know what you're talking about, and if I did, I'm not sure that's any of your concern," Henry's voice strains. He simply has to get through today without a disaster and not risk opening up and getting closer to Alex, it would-

  
"Really? Because I'm pretty sure I'm legally bound to pretend to be your best friend, and I don't know if you've thought this through yet, but that's not going to stop with this weekend," Alex tells him.

He hadn't thought about the implications, dear god. A lifetime of this, Henry doesn't think he can bear it. Henry tenses.

"If we do this and we're never seen together again, people are gonna know we're full of shit. We're stuck with each other, like it or not, so I have a right to be clued in about what your deal is before it sneaks up on me and bites me in the ass."

  
Alex's head might explode if Henry told him that Henry was deeply gay and in love with Alex.  
Maybe not a great start.

  
"Why don't we start…" Henry says while turning to face Alex to look at him in the dark. "with you telling me why exactly you hate me so much?"

  
"Do you really want to have that conversation?"

  
"Maybe I do."

  
Alex crosses and uncrosses his arms.

  
"Do you really not remember being a prick to me at the Olympics?"

  
He sighs.

  
"Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?"

  
"No," Alex says. "It was the time you were a condescending prick at the diving finals. You really don't remember?"

  
What exactly did Henry do?

  
"Remind me?"

  
Alex glares. "I walked up to you to introduce myself, and you stared at me like I was the most offensive thing you had ever seen. Right after you shook my hand, you turned to Shaan and said, 'Can you get rid of him?' "  
Fuck.  
Remembering that day meant remembering the fresh pain of his father's passing. Remembering saying things he never meant, lashing out so people could never see his pain.

  
"Ah," He says, clearing his throat. "I didn't realize you'd heard that."

  
"I feel like you're missing the point," Alex says, "which is that it's a douche thing to say either way."

  
"That's...fair."

  
"Yeah, so."

  
That's was it, the entire explanation of their feud came down to their first meeting.

  
"That's all?" Henry asks. "Only the Olympics?"

  
"I mean, that was the start."

  
What in the sodding hell did his angsty prick arse do?

  
"I'm sending an ellipsis."

  
"It's just…" Alex says. "I don't know. Doing what we do is fucking hard. But it's harder for me. I'm the son of the first female president. And I'm not white like she is, can't even pass for it. People will always come down harder on me. And you're, you know, you, and you were born into all of this, and everyone thinks you're Prince fucking Charming. You're basically a living reminder I'll always be compared to someone else, no matter what I do, even if I work twice as hard."  
Fuck.

Acknowledging privilege is strange..One only thinks of the ways one is in a position of disadvantage. And once one is privy to one's own advantages, guilt devours one whole. And acknowledgment is necessary or one is an utter a prick. He takes a deep breath and brainstorms every possibility as to how this could go wrong, but, he knows silence is worse.

"Well," he says. " I can't very well do much about the rest. But I can tell you I was, in fact, a prick that day. Not that it's any excuse, but my father had died fourteen months before, and I was still kind of a prick every day of my life at the time. And I am sorry." His hand twitches, by god he hopes Alex understands what he means.

  
But then Alex is silent and Henry doesn't know what to do.  
Does Henry have to apologize for benefiting from global systemic racism?  
Why isn't he speaking?  
He goes over everything he said over and over again. It would be fair if Alex never forgives him. He was an arse at the Olympics and has no excuse.

He always wishes he could be writing instead of speaking. In writing you could edit what you say and reword, however talking aloud is permanent and unforgiving.  
Perhaps if he fixes systemic racism Alex will forgive him?  
Henry clears his throat.

  
"Well, good to know you're not perfect." Alex says.  
Henry rolls his eyes in relief, Alex's sarcasm is almost comfortable.  
Then they're silent, Henry hopes for a miracle.

Perhaps, someone pulls them out of the cupboard, Alex kisses him, someone starts up the conversation again, Henry's anxiety and depression go poof, Alex kisses him, his father is suddenly revived from the dead.  
The silence is awful, but Alex was the last one to speak.

 _Oh god,_ he has to make conversation. 

Star Wars, yes they were talking about Star Wars, he could talk about Star Wars.  
Why can't he speak?  
My favourite Star Wars movie is…

  
"Return of the Jedi."

  
Another pause.

  
"What?"

  
"To answer your question," Henry says. "Yes, I do like Star Wars, and my favorite is Return of the Jedi."

  
"Oh," Alex says. "Wow you're wrong."

 _You little shit_. Can't even appreciate Henry’s attempt to be cordial? For some reason it makes Henry even more attracted to him. He huffs.

  
"How can I be wrong about my own favourite? It's a personal truth."

  
"It's a personal truth that is wrong and bad."

  
"Which do you prefer then? Please show me the error of my ways."

  
"Okay, Empire."

  
Henry sniffs.

"So dark, though."

  
"Yeah, which is what makes it good," Alex says. "It's the most thematically complex. It's got the Han and Leia kiss in it, you meet Yoda, Han is at the top of his fame, fucking Lando Calrissian, and the best twist in cinematic history. What does Jedi have? Fuckin' ewoks."

Perhaps Alex is attracted to Lando Calrissian and Henry does have a shot.

"Ewoks are iconic."

  
"Ewoks are stupid."

  
How dare you!

  
"But Endor."

  
"But Hoth. There's a reason people always call the best, grittiest installment of a trilogy the Empire of the series."

  
"And I can appreciate that. But isn't there something to be valued in a happy ending as well?"

  
"Spoken like a true Prince Charming."  
Oh fuck Alex.

"I'm only saying, I like the resolution of Jedi. It ties everything up nicely. And the overall theme you're intended to take away from the film's is hope and love and…" Henry is extremely grateful that it's dark. "Er, you know, all that. Which is what Jedi leaves you with a sense of most of all."  
He coughs, he hasn't spoken quite that much in a very long time.

Henry's going to kiss him. He is going to-  
The door opens, putting Henry out of his misery and proximity to Alex and the secret service agent, Cash reappears.

"False alarm," he says breathing quite heavily. "some dumbass kids brought fireworks for their friend." Cash stares down at them, squinting at the jarring light. "This looks cozy."

  
"Yep, were really bonding,"Alex says, reaching out a hand for Cash to pull him to his feet. And Henry has a feeling he isn't being sarcastic.

Right before he leaves, Alex snatches Henry's phone. His thumbs start moving rapidly.

_What is he doing?_

_What is he doing?_

Then he gives it back and Henry's eyes burn holes into the screen.

"Here," Alex says. "That's my number. If we're gonna keep this up, it's going to get annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. We'll figure it out."

Henry stares at him, trying to process the fact that the bloke he's fancied for about four years is giving him his number.

"Right," Henry says. "Thank you."

"No booty calls," Alex jokes and Henry nearly chokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updating two days in a row? have I been possessed?? anywho you can find me on tumblr @awkwardclockworksilence


	6. song of swans and understanding henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (mini spoiler warning for 'the song of achilles')  
> feat. gay swans alex getting attacked by said gay swans (if someone could write alex's pov of this scene and tag me on tumblr pleaseee I'd love you forever), more gay panic, gilmore girls references, emo henry, aro-ace Bea because I crave representation, a teensy avatar reference  
> this chapter was hell to write (i say at 4am)  
> disclaimers: I'm not British so I may come off as aggressively British, I'm an only child and I'm aro-ace

Henry can't stop staring at his phone. 

He's typed a thousand messages.

He promptly backspaced every single one of them. 

Apparently the anxiety of talking to someone he fancied had never ceased.

Henry feels like he's sixteen again in his attempt to get over the fact that Alex gave him his number.

_Alex gave him his number._

What is he supposed to do with that? He isn't quite sure where they stand. He can't push his luck for the semblance of a friendship. Like Alex said, they're stuck together for as long as the public believes they're _best mates_. He's doing what must be done to forge a bearable geopolitical relation, and that happened to be a conversation about _Star Wars_. Henry knows better than to hope for any sort of romance. 

Though they may never evolve into what Henry's been dreaming about for years, he'd be grateful for any part of him, Alex is offering. Even if it _is_ only friendship; Alex is in a position where he can understand all the paperwork and the objectification, all the people gawking at you because they read about your personal life in a tabloid. Even if it is through antagonism, Alex doesn't hold back his true feelings towards him. Alex doesn't care that he's a _prince_. He sees right through all the cracks in Henry's facade. Right through the coat of varnish and paint and the fortress Henry built with his own will. 

Needless to say, he's in utter panic. 

He just _doesn't understand_ how extroverts work. He's half convinced Gryffindors don't actually exist. How does one emit that self assuredness into action? 

Alex gave him too much power.

What is he supposed to say?

**Hello, Henry here. But I guess you probably already know me, sort of.**

**I suppose we're communicating by ewok-ie talkies now.**

**I love you.**

And then Alex would text back, **I know** like the Han Solo he is, because Henry's been so obvious all these years. 

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

He can't do this. 

How did he work up the nerve to do anything before? The blokes from uni didn't _care_ about him and he _knew_ that, so it never mattered. The problem at the instant is that it matters too much. He can only stare at Alex's contact unproductively. He's unable to send a single bloody message and do anything else for that matter. 

He's rather glad he doesn't have access to his Instagram account. They're much too terrified of him going rogue, hence the official royal social media manager exists to control the narrative. So he doesn't have to deal with any DMs viewing him as nothing more than an object of sexual gain. He doesn't have to receive any death threats first hand.

All of those voices in his head would drown out his own, it's already too much. Every article, trying to get a closer look at him, examining his every move, every word in every interview, his facial expression whenever he's in public -

He plugs in his earbuds. 

Music is his anchor, through the sea of emotions, the voices that crash against the rocks. If it's loud enough, he can plunge underwater and there’s nothing else. He can focus on chord patterns, lyrics, bass lines, guitar riffs. There's always a pattern, it's constant and steady, the repetition is almost soothing.

He goes into Spotify without a care of what's playing in his ears. He presses at random and ends up playing a throwback playlist. 

_Time is Dancing_ by Ben Howard (p.s. this song is on casey's henry playlist)

_Wrapped up in dissonance_

_I'm sorry that I just walked away_

_Lost in the insignificance of mine_

_I had no words to say_

The song seems to emanate from the gardens. And since he still hasn't taken David for his walk today, he unhooks David's leash. Hearing his leash jangle, David's tail wags and he bounds towards Henry.

"Come on David," 

It's drizzling outside, so Henry puts David's raincoat and his boots on him. Henry isn't ashamed of having a matching one.

David pads along the path, Henry gently steering him toward the Waterloo Vase. Even though the grass is soaked through, Henry trudges towards the pedestal.

A combination of the rain and having spent the weekend with Alex flood in a memory.

He'd avoided the Waterloo Vase until now. Perhaps he's taken the house metaphor much too literally, but something about the vase plays out the memory like a film in his mind.

It was 2017 after a particularly difficult semester at uni on the bank of the Thames. After her inauguration in January, it was only a matter of time before Ellen Claremont met the queen.

For a reason Henry had never understood, they'd been invited to a swan upping ceremony. 

_Henry always thought it was a bizarre tradition, plucking swans out of the river to count them. At least the apparent goal was conservation and education of swans._

_He'd usually be able to skip events such as these, but the semester had worn him out and he hadn't been functional for weeks. After a month of Cornettos, sleepless nights, Bake-Off marathons and staying in bed for days upon end, Shaan had begun to worry._

_Henry eventually relented and was relegated to watching men in uniforms pull swans out of rivers._

_Bea and Pez were in South Korea for some reason or another, and since he wasn't allowed to bring David, his current most loyal companion was a book._

_At the moment, his misery was accompanied by a copy of The Song of Achilles on his phone._

_He remembers Dad telling him of the Trojan War as a child. It spanned several nights, little Henry eager to sleep past his bedtime to hear another bit of the story. When they reached the ending, he'd drooped around the palace for days. He mourned for Achilles and Patroclus, unknowing of why he was so attached to them._

_It was more painful altogether when he knew them as characters instead of historical figures. He'd lived in the sandals of Patroclus as he fell in love with Achilles. He'd picked it up when it was released and read it fourteen times over, but he could never bring himself to finish the novel, to read the ending._

_And like always, he thought he was mentally prepared for this scene._

_He never is and never will be._

_Instead of finishing the book once and for all, he flips through all of his bookmarks and highlighted sections. Perhaps he's a coward, but he doesn't think he can face this hurt. He's been told a million times that it's only fiction, but there had never quite been characters with whom he'd sympathised to this magnitude._

_A highlighted quote:_

"And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone."

_The quote buries itself deep into his gut, into his soul._ _It aches to acknowledge that he wouldn't have minded, going with dad. Avoiding all the grief, the chasm that brought forth a demon who had chased him ever since._

_The antidepressants could make a lightsaber appear in his hands, however it never fully vanquished him. Grievous had four sabers and an indestructible cyborg body. So any sense of peace would only ever be temporary. He would hear the spindly sound of metal limbs creeping along the wall, that was when he knew Grievous had found him._

Nowhere _was completely safe._

_He shuts the book closed. His own emotional mess is draining enough as it is and doesn't have the strength to fight off another when his own is ebbing at the foundations._

_"Your Highness," Shaan nods at him. Henry looks at him, puzzled, too lost in thought to consider the world around him. "Her royal majesty has cordially invited Madam President and her first son-" After the word_ son _, Henry doesn't hear Shaan's next words._

_"We're going back to the palace Shaan,"_

_"Your Highness, you'll have to-"_

_"I don't have to do anything."_

_Henry regrets the words out of his mouth as soon as he says them. "I'm sorry. You're just trying to help and I'm lashing out and-" Henry sighs."I'm sorry."_

_"That's quite alright sir,"_

_“I'm only frightened of doing the same to the new President.” Henry says, “Erm, could we have a signal? I'll stay for a while, but I-I-” his shoulders slump, he can't complete the sentence._

_"I understand," Shaan says. "What'll be the signal, sir?"_

_"I could put my hand on the nape of my neck and tug my collar,"_

_Shaan nods._

_"Thank you," he sighs._

_And there's Alex, on the banks of the river Thames and Madam President beside him._

_It’s like his brain goes into tunnel vision. He sees nothing but a collared shirt, a pair of chinos, long eyelashes, a sharp jawline and a head of curls. There’s an unshakable confidence to him, but his mouth is set in a hard line._

_He's between digging a hole in the ground and clawing his way to Buckingham palace and dropping a smoke bomb for a disappearing act._

_Instead, he focuses on fortifying his defences, but he has a feeling that his attempts will be fruitless. The paint applied to his facade would catch fire and burn down the whole fortress, leaving nothing stopping anyone from entering._

_He does his best to avoids eye contact with Alex._

_Gran’s voice echoes through the halls of his mind,_ it's rude to not look someone in the eye, _he forces his gaze upward and their eyes lock._

_Alex's gaze is unyielding, Henry can't look away._

_His mother doesn't seem to notice the animosity radiating from her son and walks over to greet Henry._

_They shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and Henry's brain goes on autopilot, barely aware of what he's saying._

_He despises small talk. Although the words may come out of his mouth, they aren’t his. He has a set of phrases he’s allowed to say and nothing more._

_She asks about when her majesty will make an appearance._

_"The queen will be arriving later down the river."_

Perhaps she'll deign to grace us with her presence through a dramatic exiting of her carriage and shake hands on millennium bridge with the entirety of London watching. _Henry thinks to himself._

_"You've met my son, Alex?"_

_"Yes, last year at the Rio Olympics,"_

_Their handshake is awfully tense and Henry can't look directly at him._

_"Hello, Henry," Alex is seething at him._

_"Alex," Henry nods whilst biting the inside of the corner of his lip._

_Once their hands are released, he instinctively crosses his arms over his chest._

_Alex's smile doesn't seem genuine, though Henry's not very good at telling that sort of thing._

_"What," Alex says, "too high and mighty to talk to me, your_ royal Highness _?"_

_Henry chews his lip, he's afraid if he opens his mouth Alex'll take it the wrong way and Henry'll further screw things up._

_"I swear to God, I will push you into the Thames," Alex says through his teeth._

_Henry wills himself not to react or feel anything, which hasn't got any easier despite all the practice. He fakes a smile, hoping to god he doesn't screw up international politics._

_The queen's swan uppers surround a pair of swans, enclosing them in a circle of canoes._

_The President approaches Henry with a smile: "Her majesty invited me to a swan upping, I'm not sure if that's supposed to be an honour or-?"_

_Words come out of his mouth, but he's barely aware of what he's saying._

_"The queen owns the swans, she's quite protective of them. The entire ordeal is an annual tradition for the conservation and protection of swans. It's actually an act of treason to kill a swan."_

_"That's nice,"_

_He hates that phrase._

That's nice _._

_There was always some hidden meaning he could never decipher. All those half truths and lies of omission, no one tells him what they really think and it's exhausting. He knows he's a hypocrite, as he does the same to protect himself._

_“All up,” The swans are grabbed by their middles and they flap their wings in protest. They’re eventually brought ashore and they soon discover that there are not two but a family of swans, a fluffy grey cygnet peeking from behind them._

_The swans are measured and weighed._

_"Both adult males," said a swan upper in a red uniform._

_"Maybe they lost the mother," said another in a black uniform._

_"They could be siblings,"_

The swans are gay, Rory _. Henry's tempted to say out loud, but he doesn't._

_"Mr. Claremont-Diaz, would you care to hold a swan?"_

_There's a silent exchange between the President and Alex. Henry imagines the president saying something along the line of,_ don't screw up international politics during my first six months of presidency.

_Alex shoots his mother a murderous look._

_Despite his resistance, Alex is courteous and the tiny cygnet is placed in his cupped hands. There's a flash of a smile on Alex's face when one of the swans started honking like mad._

_Henry isn't sure how he can tell, but the swan looks positively volatile._

_The swan wriggles free from his handler's grasp and flaps his wings threateningly at Alex._

_No one reacts until it’s too late._

_With a garbled battle cry, the swan charges. The swan charging is truly a terrifying sight to behold. It has a wingspan taller than Henry, a pointy dull orange beak, beady eyes, and it's making a hissing sound in flight._

_The swan beaks at Alex's eye, causing Alex to yelp out loud. He lets go of the cygnet to defend himself._

_There's a flurry of swears, grunts, hissing and feathers as the swan uppers get ahold of the infuriated swan._

_In the commotion, Alex flails around batting away the feathers. He's stepping backwards, he's dangerously close to the river. Alex's shoe is sliding on the edge of the river bank, he’s losing his balance._

_Henry grabs his hand._

_Their eyes lock, and there's nothing in the world._

_They're a shade of chocolate brown, with a warmth, a homely hearth after Henry’s been doused in a bucket of freezing water._

_There's a ring of bruising right beneath his left eye from the swan._

_In another universe, Henry would trace his fingers over the wound and tend to-_

_Alex regains his footing._

_Henry coughs and tries not to jerk back his hand, as if Alex can read his thoughts through physical contact. Alex’s hand seems to linger and Henry can’t come up with a reason why._

God _, he's too close._

 _He's_ too _close._

_Henry stumbles backward._

_"Uh, th-thanks," Alex mumbles while looking down and running a hand through his hair._

_Henry feels his fortress surrounding him start to crumble to dust. His defences tumbling down by the gaze of one boy. He can feel the mask he'd so carefully placed shift, with little resistance, exposing the boy untouched by the world, the one who would accept love with open arms._

_There's nothing he could say that wouldn't ruin everything._

_He's far too-he's far too vulnerable, he's not in control of anything._

_He can't-he doesn't-he's not supposed to feel this way._

_These feelings, they're too much, a full on hurricane, he- he..._

_"I-" Henry says, then he places a hand on the nape of his neck instinctively and tugs at his collar._

_He turns away._

_He never should have left the palace._

_He has to force himself not to look back._

_Shaan is readying the car._

_These feelings, they can't be repressed for long._

_They're all consuming, a flood coursing through the gardens, sourcing from the Waterloo Vase. Flowers are ripped from the ground in the current, everything is waterlogged. But Henry's alone, so the flood of emotions are no danger to anyone. Henry's knee deep in water, the level rising higher and higher._

_Henry gets in the car._

_The windows are tinted and he can grant himself a last look at Alex. Even from afar, Henry is astounded by his beauty. Alex is looking directly at the car, his brows are set in a firm line, he looks rather pensive, lost in thought._

_Henry can't risk it._

_He can't risk anyone finding out._

_Alex will never know._

_He'd never reciprocate and- it doesn't matter._

_Gran's voice, an unceasing echo in his mind._

"No one is to know about any of your deviant desires you may begin to harbor, do not reflect poorly upon the crown."

_"Alright, sir?" Shaan asks from the front seat._

_"Just fine," Henry says faking a smile, more to reassure himself._

_He hesitantly picks up the Song of Achilles, his finger slips and opens to a highlighted section,_

_"I am made of memories."_

When he returns from his walk in the gardens with David in his arms, he finds Bea lying down on his bed.

She's wearing a strappy black crop top and a pair of muted green shorts with palm leaves on them. Her arms are wrapped around her autoharp, her fingers plucking some Dolly Parton song of which he can't recall the title.

"Why are you on my bed?"

"Good morning to you too, love," Bea responds, continuing to pluck the autoharp.

"You haven't answered the question," he says as he goes to get a towel for David. 

"How was your weekend with your boyfriend?" 

Henry feels his ears heat up.

"He is not-what do you- I'm not-" 

Bea innocently blinks, her song unceasing.

"I'm going to shower, you have your own room,"

He dries off David and grabs a set of pajamas and a pair of lilac socks with moons and stars on them. 

David hops onto the bed.

He sits in his usual spot. 

At the moment, it's where Bea's face currently situated.

"Mmph," Bea says, "David, geroff."

She still has her autoharp at hand, so she can't take him off her face. She's squirming around, but David won't budge. "Henry, please, help,"

He's in the doorway when his sense of guilt makes him turn around.

"David, it's alright," Henry says, lifting his dog off his sister's face, so she can roll away. "You were in his spot anyway,"

"Your dog gets priority over your sister? How dare you," Bea places a dramatic hand on her forehead, letting him know that she's joking. 

"Did you want me to put David back on your face?"

"Go shower,"

Henry breathes out a laugh. 

When he returns, Bea's still there except she's now reclining against the headrest. 

Henry places himself next to her. 

"Why are you here?"

"Because I want to spend quality time with my baby brother?"

Henry gives her a look.

"What is it Bea?" He asks. "I'm listening, I promise,"

"I think," she takes a breath, "well, I've told you about my stance on romance," she wrinkles her nose. "I'm not even completely certain myself, but I've been doing a little VPN researching," she tosses her hair. "and I think I'm asexual aromantic,"

"Alright," he says.

"That's it? I bare my heart-"

Henry nudges her in the side.

"I presumed you had more to say and didn't want to talk over you,"

"Okay," Bea says, "this might take a while, can you braid my hair in the meantime, Dutch braids,"

"You'll need to turn around for that,"

Bea shifts into profile view and he grabs a comb from the nightstand. 

"I've told you this before, I've never dated or been interested really. It's not something that mattered to me, that is until it mattered to everyone else. In primary school I first heard the word _fancy_ and-" she pauses.

"I was _confused_. I thought it was a dramatisation, some sort of practical joke. But then my friends kept talking about how much they wanted a boyfriend, and I didn't know what to say.

"Soon, they didn't _care_ about anything else and started attributing their self worth on whether or not they had a boyfriend. It was all we saw in films, they'd obsess over some actor and I didn't _get it_.

"I kept thinking, I just haven't grown up yet, I'll understand in time. I kept expecting something to happen, that I had somehow repressed my attraction to anyone, and one day I'd meet someone who'd make me understand.” she sighs and Henry shifts to start working on the second braid.

“But time went on and it got harder to relate to _anyone_ , they all got boyfriends and didn't have time for me. We drifted apart...

"It’s just so isolating, living in a world utterly romance driven. Everyone is either starving for it or raving about some delicious steak. It's not that I'm on a diet, I’ve never been _hungry_.

"And it doesn’t ever stop. You can’t watch a film without the romance or some sort of romantic subtext. You can’t listen to a majority of songs without a lyric about love, or sex, or-. And it’s not that I _care_ , or mind the over-saturation of romance in the media. It’s just, we don’t exist beyond headcanons and obscure corners of the internet. 

"I never figured out my sexuality until now because it doesn't _sell_. There is no plot line that'll satisfy a general audience without romance. Any character who doesn't have any relationship is seen as either sociopathic or unfulfilled. I'll never be enough, only ever invisible."

“ _Oh Bea_ ,” he wraps his arms around her.

She stays there for a moment, then bats him away.

"You ruined the braid," she whines. 

"You can't just-"he says. "You were saying all-"

"Christ, Henry," she says shoving a pillow at him, but she's smiling. 

Henry throws one back at her. And soon it's a whole pillow war, Henry wields his pillow like a sword in both hands. Bea fights viciously, but her demeanor is almost relieved.

They dissolve into a fit of laughter, lying down on their backs and Henry snuggles against her. 

"I love you, y'know that right. I'll _always_ be here for you. Even if I manage to get a boyfriend, we won't drift apart. I _promise_."

"You sappy little-" Bea drops a pillow on his face.

 _Boof_.

They lie against each other for a while until Bea whispers "I love you too,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sincerely apologize for a lack of posting, this chapter was literal hell to write, still fun nevertheless. I blame school and me royally screwed up my sleeping pattern so writing is more difficulttttt
> 
> anywho, you can find me on tumblr on my mess of a blog where I spam about fandoms, important stuff and really whatever is on my dash @awkwardclockworksilence  
> ooh! also pleaseee send headcanonssss and I'll do my best to incorporate them later


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